


The Day the Grinch Got Married

by ComeHitherAshes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Rings, Tears, Wedding Planning, Wedding Speeches, cakes, the whole shebang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5534135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes/pseuds/ComeHitherAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were constants, the sun and the moon, yin and yang, sweet and sour, they knew everything about the other.</p><p>So why was <i><b>he</b></i> the one down on one knee, why was <i><b>he</b></i> the one planning it, and why was <i><b>he</b></i> the one crying at the altar?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Proposal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misanthropiclycanthrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/gifts).



> Hello! I know I've been [away for a ridic amount of time](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/post/135387935833/hello-hello-apparently-my-two-week-hiatus-turned), and that this is late, and my title sucks, and it's meant to be twice the length, I'M SORRY. All will be revealed, I hope you all have/had a lovely Christmas! <3

> Oh, I won't ask for much this Christmas  
>  I won't even wish for snow  
>  And I'm just gonna keep on waiting  
>  Underneath the mistletoe  
>  \- ' _All I Want for Christmas is You'_

Porthos loved Christmas, that much was obvious.

It was obvious in the way he started playing Christmas songs from the first of December, it was obvious in the way there were decorations absolutely everywhere by the first weekend, and it was obvious in the way that he kept saying it.

"I love Christmas."

"Yes," Athos murmured over his paper, "you mentioned."

There was a faint jingling from across the room, so Athos flicked the corner of his broadsheet down to see Porthos poking a bauble. "D'you think we should get more decorations?"

Athos cleared his throat, folding the paper perfectly in his lap as he tilted his head to regard the room. There were cards on the walls, a garland on the mantelpiece, presents under the tree, antlers on Porthos' head—

"What on Earth are you wearing?"

Porthos' grin was ridiculously wide. "Wondered when you'd notice."

Athos' immediate reaction was to say that he had to take them off, that he couldn't wear them for the drinks party later – even though he would anyway – but it had only taken four years for Athos to realise when Porthos was after some attention.

Athos let his lip quirk as he settled back into his armchair. "Why, aren't you handsome."

The delighted beam this earned him was worth the shit he would get later for having a boyfriend wearing bells, but then he had never cared for gossip anyway – and he was the one that got to sleep with him, so he was still the victor. Porthos spread his hands and said again, "Wondered when you'd notice."

Athos scoffed, "I've always known you were handsome, Porthos – in fact, you still bring up the time I drunkenly told you so on our first date."

"You, forgettin' to eat 'cause you were so nervous, me, enjoyin' every second that the great an' powerful Athos said I 'ad _such beautiful eyes?"_ Porthos' laugh was annoyingly fond. "Can't 'elp it, I love watchin' you flush."

"Sadist," Athos murmured, "even if you are a handsome one."

At Athos' mild embarrassment – even after all of this time – Porthos crossed his arms with a soft smile. "If you really 'ated it, you'd stop me."

"Ah, your _coup de grâce,_ you know very well I can't deny you anything." It was supposed to be indulgent, but it came out irritated, which was exactly what Porthos wanted.

Athos felt his gaze drop momentarily as he watched Porthos' approach; slow, steady steps designed to intimidate. Athos met the predatory smile squarely, but they both knew he had already lost.

Or won, he was never quite sure with Porthos.

"You just like sayin' _yes_ to me, do you?" Porthos' voice lowered to a honeyed growl as he braced his hands on the arms of Athos' chair, looming high enough that Athos had to slightly tilt his head even as he looked from under his brows.

"No, I hate saying yes to you, that's why you enjoy it so much," Athos muttered matter-of-factly, resolutely not remembering the last time Porthos had him against the wall, straining to get away and straining to get closer, Porthos asking him if he wanted more, and simply waiting for the answer.

Waiting for Athos to grit out an admittance through every harsh breath.

"Go on, say it now."

Athos' answer was flat. "No."

"Athos…" Porthos licked his lips, grinning when Athos struggled not to look. "Would you like a glass of wine?"

Athos' smile split like milk on the kitchen floor, completely by accident. "Yes."

Porthos squeezed his eyes shut and exaggerated a groan, long and low and guttural. "Again."

Athos rolled his eyes even as he huffed a laugh, struggling to deal with how much he adored his greatest tormentor, how much he would give him, how much he couldn't. "Yes, _please_."

"Oh, fuck, yes," Porthos hissed, biting his lip for a long moment before opening his eyes, smile ridiculously endearing as he leaned in for a kiss, chuckling when Athos' teeth filled the gap.

Athos only let him go when blunt fingers trailed up his arms. "You are ridiculous."

"You love me."

"I always have," Athos replied honestly, and hoped Porthos heard the unspoken part, the one that hurt when he couldn't say it – and still hurt when he whispered it after Porthos gave him another kiss before disappearing into the kitchen. "I always will."

Athos had always been wary of those words, words that had broken him once already. Porthos knew, Athos had told him, told him in hushed tones of an evening, and so they had never spoken about the future, never made any promises beyond the ones they made with their bodies.

They had trust, and that was all they needed.

Athos' attention had drifted, but it arrowed in on a shirtless Porthos that leaned against the doorframe, those antlers still bedecking the tight curls of his hair and a glass of red in his curled fingers. "S'ruttin' season, y'know?"

Athos discarded his newspaper without a second thought and growled one word against Porthos' smile.

_Yes._

_\--------_

Christmas morning dawned with an absence of snow that had Porthos sighing with disappointment and Athos with relief. Mostly because it brought Porthos back to bed, warm and looking for another sort of excitement.

Another sort of snow.

Athos left a dazedly content Porthos in bed as he dressed and headed downstairs to make their morning coffee, busying himself at the counter when he heard Porthos' heavy tread pause at the sight of him.

"S'that my jumper?"

"Yes."

"S'that my very Christmassy jumper?"

"Yes," Athos replied, as if it was nothing, as if he hadn't been rifling through the cupboard and gained a silly little smile at the thought of Porthos' reaction.

Athos glanced over his shoulder hopefully, but Porthos was already at his back, arms sliding around his waist as he ignored Athos' half-hearted protests to pull him off-balance. "I love hearin' you say that."

It was said with a contented sigh, and Athos had to hide his smirk.

"I couldn't find one of mine."

"Uh huh, s'not like you have one in a very nice shade of red _hangin' up on the mirror?_ "

"Is that where it is?" Athos asked innocently, and was surprised into a laugh when Porthos slipped his hands under the hem, fingers skimming over his stomach until he could force his smile into a scowl.

"Yours'll be too small on me, love," Porthos murmured, grinning against the stretch of Athos' neck.

Athos tilted his head to the side, part in thought, part to give better access to the lips that made tracks over his skin. "That's not a bad thing."

Porthos snorted, nipping at Athos' jugular to make him shiver, and in the stillness drag the jumper off, leaving a flustered, ruffled Athos glaring at him.

"Aw, you're wearin' a shirt? Spoilsport."

"They itch," Athos said dryly, and jerked his head at the door. "Go on then, fetch mine."

Porthos closed the space between them again, a solid, demanding presence at Athos' back. "I'll lock 'orns with you again if you ain't careful."

Athos resolutely didn't smile as he said archly, "Do you want to open your presents or not?"

That earned him a rough laugh, another kiss – this time on the vulnerable span of his throat – and then Porthos disappeared upstairs, returning with Athos' jumper in hand and those infernally adorable antlers on his head again.

Athos didn't much mind the exchange of a kiss for a glass of champagne, not when the bubbles were bouncing and Porthos was too, his giddiness infectious with every little twirl he forced Athos to do around their living room.

"It is a good thing I love you," Athos muttered after suffering through a dip that had him an inch off the floor, safely ensconced in Porthos' grip.

Porthos swept him back onto his feet with a chuckle. "Yeah? How much?"

"Too much," he said dryly, but when Porthos held him close and it seemed as if it was the only thing was holding him together, he added quietly, "Not enough."

Porthos squeezed him tightly, and Athos' huff of surprise covered a whisper that sounded something like, "We'll see."

"Say again?"

"Nothin'. So, we doin' these presents or not?"

Athos watched him kneel down to forage under the tree, slightly bemused, but he fell into the flow of things when the room disappeared under a flurry of wrapping paper, shiny bows stuck to clothes and ribbons flying through the air.

Athos wasn't allowed to spend too much on Porthos, not after _that year,_ but he managed to do so anyway – and in Porthos' own admission, "You spoiled me rotten all year, what else could you get me?"

Athos refilled his glass as Porthos opened the last present, and it was Athos' favourite, the crinkling of paper and the gurgling of wine the only noises in the room for some time.

"I know I give a good gift, _mon coeur,_ but I wasn't expecting speechless—"

The smirk that Athos had turned with slowly faded from his face.

Porthos held out a bottle of Athos' favourite wine, a shiny ribbon tied around the neck, but Athos had to lower his gaze to meet his favourite pair of chestnut-coloured eyes.

Porthos had taken a knee.

Athos took a moment to whisper, "What are you doing?"

"S'my last gift," Porthos said plainly, and then spread his arms a little wide. "Well, it's me."

Athos' hand trembled slightly, his wine glass wobbling with a similarly inhaled breath as everything seemed to focus rather painfully on a question they had never discussed, never even _contemplated_ needing.

Porthos looked away almost bashfully. "I'm a little battered, love, I know, an' I know this ain't somethin' we ever planned on but…" Porthos looked at him then, all earnest honesty and a depth of love that Athos didn't feel he deserved. "If you'll 'ave me?"

Athos' chest was pained, confusion writ across his features as he shook his head slightly, fearfully, and murmured, "I don't understand."

Athos didn't understand what was happening, why it was happening, he didn't understand why it was Porthos on one knee in front of him – such a vulnerable and yet so _powerful_ a position at this moment, because Athos stood above him, but he wanted to sink to his knees.

Mostly, Athos didn't understand the question.

Athos didn't want anyone else, it was only ever Porthos.

Porthos wobbled slightly, his stance seeming more unsteady by the second. "You ain't sayin' no, are ya?"

Athos stared for a moment, stared at the worry that started to crease Porthos' brow, mouth still parted a fraction, and then he ever so slightly shook his head. "I'm not saying no, no."

Porthos bit his lip hopefully. "Then what _are_ you sayin'? What word in particular?"

Athos fought not to smile when he realised what Porthos wanted, but it was impossible, impossible when some bizarre brightness seemed to flicker like fireworks in Athos' stomach and he could only reply with exasperated adoration, "Yes."

Porthos leaped up with a laugh, wine bottle thrown to the safety of the sofa even as he took both of Athos' hands and chuckled at the dry, "I hope you don't have an engagement ring hidden on your person"

Porthos pushed their foreheads together, their elated smiles almost meeting with every beloved breath. "What? But you love gaudy jewellery an' blatant signs of affection!"

Athos raised an eyebrow, but all it earned him was a delighted kiss and muffled words against his mouth, "I get to see that for the rest of my _life._ "

Which, naturally, caused Athos to flush, which caused him to hide it in the crook of Porthos' neck and breath him in, to steady himself with the one stable point in his life.

To feel _engaged._

Porthos pulled back and lowered his chin to check on him, smile peaking at the hint of feverish pink to Athos' cheeks. "Feel weird?"

"Slightly," Athos admitted, and because it was Porthos, he gave a small, almost shy smile. "And yet... Right."

It did, no matter that he had never thought himself married – again – and never finding someone who understood him as well as he understood them.

And then he had met Porthos.

"I can tie a bit of ribbon round our fingers, if you want?" Porthos asked gamely, kissing him again when Athos gave him a look.

And Porthos made him laugh.

"I didn't think we were the type—" Athos began, cutting himself off when it came out wrong, but Porthos simply grinned.

"You can't back out now, y'know."

"I'm not backing out," Athos replied archly. "I'm just surprised, I think everyone will be."

Porthos snorted loudly, fingers carding through Athos' hair as if he had to touch every inch of him anew. "Athos, you're always the last one to see this sorta stuff, fairly certain everyone already thinks we're married."

Athos frowned dubiously, his own hands trailing up Porthos' chest as if they had a mind of their own, before pausing at Porthos' collarbone. "As if I would do anything so important without the ceremony it deserved."

Porthos ducked slightly to look him hopefully in the eye, the search for satisfaction obvious. "Is it important?"

"Yes, of course."

Porthos beamed again, as if he took a burst of endorphins every time Athos used that word, and yet Athos knew very well what came next, and he was _not_ looking forward to the rigmarole and pomp that came with weddings – and suddenly, this seemed like more trouble than it might be worth.

Even if the thought of having Porthos' ring on his finger did seem so very _right._

Porthos grabbed him in another hug, chuckling at the surprised huff of laughter against his ear, and then pulled away with his hands still covering Athos' shoulders, something soothing in it.

"There's one condition," Porthos said gravely, and Athos wanted to scoff – because what conditions could there be, Athos did as he liked in life, and he had the means to do so.

Who would stop him?

"Oh?"

"I'm plannin' everything."

Porthos hissed a dubious inhale as Athos stiffened.

"What."


	2. The Preparation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prep turned into a whole chapter, complete with a weeny bit of angst and some beautifully-bared hearts. I've got the speeches all lined up for the next one though!

Of all the things Athos had expected to find under the Christmas tree, a conditional wedding wasn't one of them.

Porthos, naked but for a strategically placed wine bottle, yes, but not this.

"Why?"

Porthos shifted his weight a little uneasily, sensing the oncoming storm. "Well, one, 'cause I wanna, two, you'll get way too stressed doin' it, an' three, there ain't no way we're goin' crazy over this."

Athos' mouth pressed into a tight line, focusing solely on that last point with all the tact of a man used to buying whatever he wanted. "Use the credit card I gave you – the one that you refuse to use."

"And I'm still gonna, Scrooge McDuck," Porthos insisted, teasing smile widening when Athos sneered. "Athos, this is about _us_ , not spendin' fuck off amounts of money."

Stubbornness lined Athos' spine despite how softly Porthos rubbed his thumbs against his shoulders. "What if I want to spend fuck off amounts of money?"

Porthos couldn't help but grin at hearing his words in Athos' mouth – which is partly why Athos had done it, because despite it all, he still couldn't deny Porthos anything.

"That's why I'm doin' the plannin', an' you gotta promise that you'll keep your nose out."

"I'm not allowed any input to my own wedding?" Athos tried to be angry but he suddenly flushed at those last few words, and Porthos chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to Athos' tense jaw.

"Just show up, lookin' stunnin', that's it."

Athos chewed that over, watching Porthos carefully. "Am I allowed to choose my own suit, at least?"

"You can choose mine too, if you want."

Athos' eyebrow rose in some definite interest, something pleased in his quiet reply, "Very well."

Porthos opened his mouth to continue arguing, but it stayed open as he realised what Athos had said. "Seriously, jus' like that, you're agreein?"

Athos was tempted to stick his tongue in his cheek in that infuriating way that Porthos did when he was being a git, but somehow, he refrained. "This was what you wanted, no?"

"Well, yeah, but I thought you'd fight me s'more."

"I _want_ to," Athos muttered, but gently unhooked one of Porthos' hands from his shoulders and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. "But this evidently means a lot to you."

Porthos' hand twisted to cup Athos' cheek. " _You_ mean a lot to me, s'why I wanna do this properly."

Athos hummed dubiously, snaring Porthos' other hand with his own. "That word means something different to me, I think."

"I won't let you down, love."

Athos softened, his smile an affectionate thing even as his stomach fluttered nervously. "I know, _mon coeur,_ you never do."

It was only the rest of their lives.

 

* * *

 

Nothing much changed over the next few weeks, despite Porthos' repeated assurances that everything was under control.

Athos would come home from work, expecting to see books and letters and plans strewn about the living room, to see Porthos too busy to spend time with him – which in turn would give him an excuse to wrest control where possible.

But all Athos saw was Porthos on the sofa, scrolling through websites, typing up emails, and checking Excel documents; all of which was easily put away and moved aside so Porthos could drag him onto the sofa and murmur, _missed you today._

Porthos was annoyingly prepared.

In fact, everything was going so smoothly that Athos was starting to panic, because if it was easy, Porthos must be doing it wrong. There were invitations to send out, menus to sample, reservations to make years in advance.

At least, that's how Athos would do it, but that was the problem, Athos wasn't doing it, Porthos was, and he wasn't doing it how Athos wanted it.

And yet every time he worked himself up to demand that Porthos share his secrets, Porthos would do something unbearably gallant, like find the time to cook Athos' favourite meal or surprise him with flowers or remember to ask about one tiny detail he had mentioned weeks ago.

So Athos bit his tongue and tried to tell himself that Porthos would do it right, he would do what Athos wanted, he was sure of it.

Until Athos got a phonecall.

The house had been serene as the sun rose, Athos rising with it to prepare for a meeting, determined to stay quiet so that Porthos could rest – and so that Athos might happen to find a stray sheet of paper with all of his plans on it about the house.

The serenity shivered when the phone rang, and then it shattered as Athos stormed upstairs and slammed the bedroom door open.

"I am _not_ the bride!"

Porthos jolted upright, fingers grasping for the baseball bat he kept by the bed before his dazed eyes focused on Athos standing at the foot of their bed with his arms crossed. "What're you talkin' about?"

"You heard me, Porthos du Vallon."

Porthos fell back against the pillows with an exhausted sigh, his sluggish thoughts speeding up for all the wrong reasons at the sound of his name in that censorious tone. "Athos, s'too early for this."

"Aramis has just called me saying that he insists on accompanying me to the tailors because he's your best man, and that _I'm_ walking the aisle."

Porthos dragged the duvet over his face with a mumbled, "You can have 'im if you want, I 'ave known him longer though."

Athos' growl tended to work wonders on Porthos, but only when there was some heat involved, hearing it when sleepy and naked wasn't quite the same when Athos also yanked the covers off of him completely.

"Hey!"

"I am not walking the aisle!"

Porthos propped himself up on his elbows in surprise. "S'that why you're givin' me pneumonia?"

"This is a delicate situation as it is, I will not submit to some warped sense of stereotype by walking down the aisle."

Porthos wasn't sure whether to laugh or groan, and decided to just try and hide under his arms. "S'got nothin' to do with fuckin' stereotypes, Athos, so quit your whingin'. I'm plannin' it, just thought it made sense for _one_ of us to walk. An' 'sides, I think you'll make someone's day if you ask 'em to walk with you."

Porthos warily opened an eye when everything went quiet, expecting another attack, but Athos was frowning at the floor, realisation chasing confusion across his face, and with it, guilt.

Porthos didn't expect a verbal apology – he would have been pretty pissed too, and he was living on borrowed time with Athos as it was – but neither did he expect the blankets to be thrown over him again, nor a kiss against his bicep and a murmured, "I'll do dinner, tonight."

"What time?"

Athos hesitated again, just out of Porthos' view, but he heard the reluctant reply easily enough.

"Late, there's someone I have to see."

Porthos grunted an answer, refusing to lift his head when he knew he might laugh – because then he wouldn't have any time left at all.

After hearing the door go, Porthos rolled onto his back with a grin, and wished he could see how that conversation was going to go down.

But he wouldn't, and so Athos cornered his junior partner after work and gruffly invited him for a drink; only to receive an ecstatic hug from a happy, lip-quivering d'Artagnan after he had laid out his plan.

"You're not giving me away, d'Artagnan, it's just a formality."

"What am I then?"

Athos looked from his glass of brandy to the hopeful eyes of a boy he considered his brother. "Well, I suppose you're my best man."

Athos nearly fell off of his chair with the next hug.

 

* * *

 

The months passed uneventfully, mostly because Treville kept Athos busy in exchange for being promised a seat next to Richelieu at the reception.

It was that or have them making eyes at each other across the table, because despite how much they insisted _nothing was going on,_ it was really bloody obvious.

At this rate, Porthos would be lucky to find a shady spot for him and Athos what with all the matchmaking that was going on.

They did say that weddings were for getting together, after all; just, perhaps, not quite so literally.

Although his plan was working against him a bit, because Athos was a little _too_ busy. Athos was the type to take his work home with him, and so it was that getting done of an evening, instead of Porthos.

Which probably explained why he jumped half a mile when the doorbell went during the day.

He could hear them arguing before he even got there, and it continued as if he wasn't when he opened the door, Aramis pushing past to lounge over the sofa, Constance to pace around the living room, and d'Artagnan to flop in front of the fireplace.

"Uh, hey?"

Constance paused her pacing to say seriously, "Porthos, this is an intervention."

Porthos frowned as he shoved Aramis' legs aside only to have them thrown over his lap as he sat down. "Of what? I ain't got any vices – 'cept Athos."

His favourite one, the one he really didn't mind overdosing on.

"Yes," Aramis drawled, "that's the issue."

If they weren't such good friends, Porthos might have thought they were trying to throw him off the entire idea, but he knew they wouldn't do that, and they knew he wouldn't listen.

He and Athos were meant to be.

"The food," Constance said questioningly, without an actual question.

"Yeah? S'under control."

"Yes, well, don't take this the wrong way but—"

"Athos won't want burgers," d'Artagnan called from the floor, yelping when Constance kicked him in the ribs.

Porthos realised why they were here, and his eyes narrowed. "S'wrong with burgers?"

Aramis threw his hands up. "I told you."

Constance glared at the melodramatic mare and muttered, "I hoped you were wrong."

Porthos fell back against the sofa and rolled his eyes. "Are you seriously tellin' me you came 'ere to bollock me for the food?"

"It's your neck on the line," Aramis warned, and d'Artagnan mimed a noose around his own.

"I know, 'e reminds me often," Porthos laughed, "s'why I know what I'm doin' is right."

"What _are_ you doing?" Constance asked suspiciously, looking about the room as Athos did, trying to see if there was any vital information to pounce on.

Porthos crossed his arms confidently. "I ain't tellin' you, 'cause Athos'll only worm it outta you."

D'Artagnan's guilty look went unnoticed by everyone except Porthos, who made a mental note to keep the poor boy away from any potential wedding details – and Porthos still loved thinking about that word.

"Is it going to be soon?"

" _Please_ make it soon, I can't keep lying to Athos," Aramis whined, and Porthos' happy nature disappeared.

"Athos 'as been askin' you?"

They nodded as one, d'Artagnan still guilty – but for selling Athos out instead of the other way around – and Porthos dragged a hand over his face.

He had thought Athos had been too busy to snoop around, but clearly he was still finding time to hone his spy skills.

It left Porthos feeling irritated.

"Yeah, it's gonna be soon, sooner if I 'ave my way," Porthos promised, mentally rescheduling dates so he could give his _husband_ a good seeing to for being nosy.

Constance smiled, head tilting to the side. "The funny thing is, you would, if you told Athos, you know he gets you everything you want."

"Yeah, hilarious," Porthos muttered, his irritation turning to anxiety, hoping against all hope that he was going to get this right.

"Watch, within the marriage year, Porthos will become this pampered pooch dressed in gold and jewels," Aramis teased, and gave him a dangerous smile.

"My collar's leather, actually."

Aramis raised one interested eyebrow even as d'Artagnan clamped his hands over his ears and yelled until Constance kicked him again.

 

* * *

 

They talked about normal things for a while, each of them trying to get it back to the wedding in their own way, Aramis about suits, Constance about food, d'Artagnan torn between trying to get information to give to Athos and ruining the surprise.

Porthos wasn't going to tell them anything anyway, but he was enjoying having them around what with Athos working late.

They cracked open the wine, passed around the snacks, and lounged without a care in the world, laughing loudly and telling jokes – most at Porthos' expense, but he was okay with it, he held all the cards.

The pack fluttered from his fingers at a familiar sound outside.

"Shit, Athos is home."

They all tensed, d'Artagnan practically scrabbling on the carpet to get out of the backdoor, Constance nibbling her lip as Aramis just made himself more comfortable and murmured sleepily, "Athos can bite me."

"He actually might at this rate," Porthos muttered, nudging his laptop a little further under the sofa.

"Goody."

Constance caught d'Artagnan by the ankle before he could completely slip away, and sighed, "Your car's out front."

D'Artagnan slumped against the floor in a defeated heap and whined, "I'm dead."

"Nah, I'm first on Athos' list."

D'Artagnan perked up slightly, but cringed with the rest of them when the door opened. Athos barely looked at any of them before they made inane excuses to leave, even Aramis deciding this wasn't a war zone he wanted to be a part of and squeezing Porthos' fingers before disappearing – although not before squeezing Athos' too.

Athos waited by the door, jaw tense and eyes on the floor whilst they left.

"Hey, love," Porthos tried hopefully, but Athos simply walked past him to the liquor cabinet, hand going for the whiskey rather than the wine.

Porthos bided his time, unsure if he was waiting for the storm to blow over or waiting to see if it would engulf him.

Athos only poured himself a glass, and Porthos sighed, "C'mon, Athos, seriously? They chose to come over."

"You chose to let them stay."

Porthos' ire rose at Athos' confrontational tone. "Or what, chuck 'em out? Stop throwin' a strop just 'cause they won't tell you anythin'—"

Athos' glass landed squarely on the counter, the noise harsh as he spun around. "It is hard enough doing this as it is, let alone being the _only one_ that doesn't know," Athos said, anger flashing in his eyes. "I walk into a room of relative strangers and people stop talking, and although I'd like to think you wouldn't tell just anyone, d'Artagnan can barely look at me anymore, and Aramis has this constantly smug look on his face."

"That's just Aramis."

Athos released a heavy breath, and with it, some of his irritation left, leaving him hollow of everything except something he hadn't felt in a very long time.

_Lonely._

"I don't _like_ not knowing," Athos murmured, "but knowing that you're sharing this information with others instead of me… I like that even less."

Porthos sagged, crowding Athos against the counter for his own sake, his hands smoothing over silk-covered shoulders. "Athos…"

Athos relaxed, but he turned away when Porthos tried to kiss him, turned to the whiskey glass still in one hand. "This is exactly what I didn't want to happen."

Porthos paused, watching Athos lick the liquid from his lips. "This?"

"We didn't have secrets before this, and this – of all occasions – is the time there's not meant to be any. It feels wrong."

Porthos huffed a laugh, taking his cue from the thigh Athos nudged between his own, and marvelled at how far they had come. Time was where Athos would have gone silent, not told him the problem, and Porthos would have pushed too hard in trying to get an answer.

It was proof that this was meant to happen.

"You're the one snoopin'."

Athos faced him with a frown. "You knew I would, you're _hiding_ things from me, Porthos, and you know how I feel about that."

Porthos bowed his head slightly, his sigh soft. "I know, love."

Athos lifted his free hand until it linked with the one Porthos had laid on his shoulder, and with every second that they touched, Athos relaxed further.

"I have been able to control nearly every aspect of my life," Athos said, not adding the silent _since her_ that Porthos heard anyway. "Until you."

"Good," Porthos murmured, bringing their foreheads together until he could almost taste the sweet sting of whiskey on Athos' breath. "Power's a tricky beast."

Athos hummed, and Porthos spied a miniscule twitch at the edge of that stubborn mouth. "As are you."

Porthos nudged at Athos' nose, but despite the small smile it earned him, Porthos lowered his head to meet Athos' eyeline and asked sombrely, "Do you trust me."

Athos hesitated for a fraction too long before answering. "Yes."

Porthos knew someone else would be hurt by that, knew that someone else would step away, but then someone else would have expected Athos to not explain, to stop smiling.

They were not who they were when they had met.

"I trust you with my life, Porthos," Athos answered, fingers now cupping Porthos' jaw, "but I'm having trouble with this."

"Why?"

Athos sighed, half-turning to get another glass out of the cupboard and filling both of them with another dram of whiskey, handing it over with a nod of acceptance when Porthos thanked him. "We want different things out of it."

"I wanna marry you," Porthos said simply, and he wanted to hold Athos close when he saw the flash of vulnerable surprise in his eyes, the same one he saw whenever he said it, as if Athos still couldn't believe it. "There's nothing else that matters."

"Then why are you the one who's planning it all?"

Porthos didn't bother explaining again, Athos had heard all the reasons before, he just didn't understand them, so instead Porthos asked, "What're you so worried about?"

"I have a certain reputation to uphold, I have friends that will expect to see it," Athos muttered as if it pained him, and Porthos wanted to shake him as much as he wanted to hug him.

"Athos, if these posh friends of yours ain't happy for us, they ain't friends."

Athos blinked once, twice, and then asked, "Am I understand that means you haven't invited them?"

Porthos grinned at the twinkle in Athos' eyes, the one that said he was off the hook, and nodded gamely. "Yeah, s'family only."

"Tricky beast," Athos said, quietly enough that it tickled Porthos' lips, a taunting kiss. "I will make your suit a canary yellow one."

Porthos tossed his whiskey back and shrugged. "Don't matter what I'm wearin' as long I'm marryin' you."

Athos stared at him for a long moment, and his reply was a brokenly hopeful whisper, "You're not allowed to say things like that."

Porthos fell in love with him all over again and leaned in close to steal a kiss, the alcohol giving a nip that Athos soon followed through with. "You can tell me what to do when we're married."

A flush spread across Athos' cheeks like red stained a beautiful dawn sky. "You still won't."

"Nah, an' well, speakin' of that, there's somethin' I've been meanin' to tell you," Porthos admitted, savouring Athos' supple form against him before it tensed up. "An' you'll be the first to know."

Athos' eyebrow quirked high with interest. "Oh?"

"We're gettin' married next month."

This time the nip hurt. " _What_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could write theses on these two and their relationship, I swear. Also, in case you hadn't noticed, there's a hint about the next chapter in the updated fic summary...


	3. The Pledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, stream-of-consciousness text messages that eventually turned into fic. Let's all thank the brilliant misanthropiclycanthrope for 1) starting all this wedding nonsense off, and 2) dealing with me whinging about my own writing because Athos was being so painfully sweet that it was practically OOC.
> 
> Yeah, ready your toothbrushes. I promised you tears~!

"It's raining."

Porthos fell out of bed at Aramis' announcement, fingertips scrabbling to get to the window as he heaved breath after agonising breath, sleep still dragging at his bleary eyes.

Not today, not today of all fucking days, the weather forecast had been clear – _fuck the Beeb_.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit— You little shit."

Porthos had his nose pressed to the glass, and all that stared back were blue skies and a bright sun, nery a cloud or raindrop in sight.

Aramis' cackle from under the duvet was met with Porthos slumping to the carpet – which was hilariously reminiscent of _shag,_ especially when Porthos seemed to sink an inch into it.

"You're actually an arsehole," Porthos muttered, dragging himself back under the sheets Aramis insisted were _mulberry_ but to Porthos' estimation were definitely hot pink.

"Consider it an alarm," Aramis mumbled, face-down in his pillow and an arm slung across Porthos'.

"Athos makes me coffee."

"Fat chance of that here, my dear." Aramis wriggled until one eye wasn't covered by curls, and then rolled it at him. "That's why you're marrying him."

"S'the price of commitment, cup 'f coffee an' lazy sex," Porthos explained with a grin, propped up on his elbow when Aramis raised a manicured brow.

"Athos hasn't been lazy in his life."

Porthos inclined his head, because for the most part it was true. Athos was honed and intense in nearly every aspect of his life, and it was quite a thing to be on the receiving end of that when also tied to the bedposts.

"You gotta press the right buttons," Porthos mused, gaze drifting to the middle distance. "Glass 'f red, fireplace, or the witchin' hour jus' before 'e properly falls asleep. S'all soft words an' supple limbs, an' this gorgeous little sigh 'e does…"

Porthos paused to see Aramis watching him carefully. "Go on."

Porthos snorted, pulling the covers over Aramis' sly smile and rolling out of bed. " _Fat chance._ "

"Spoilsport," Aramis called as Porthos ducked into the en suite. "Tell me more about Athos' sighs."

"What, so you can add it to your spank bank?" Porthos shouted back, fishing his toothbrush from the box of his things that Aramis kept on the bathroom counter.

Aramis popped his head around the doorway, reluctant to step on the cold tiles just yet. "I keep telling you to make a video, the Internet would love you."

"Who says we 'aven't?" Porthos replied distractedly, hunting for his razor, and laughing when he saw Aramis' rampant curiosity. "If we 'ave, it ain't for the likes of that."

"I'm a friend of the family, Porthos," Aramis replied grandly, hand splayed over his chest. "I would consider it my _duty_ to oversee—"

"The only duty you 'ave today is bein' my best man – an' you're doin' a fine job of it lustin' after my soon-to-be-'usband."

_Husband._

Just like that, Porthos felt vaguely sick, and then Aramis was there, braving the chilly floor and splash of cold water just to give him a hug, all jokes and jibes disappearing.

"Everything will be fine," Aramis murmured, perching on his tip toes to see their reflection over Porthos' shoulder, to see Porthos' nervous expression and clenched hands. "Athos trusts you."

"S'what I'm worried about," Porthos replied quietly.

 

* * *

 

"Get up," Athos murmured over his second cup of coffee, fingers pulling at a few of the dark strands that had fallen over d'Artagnan's face.

The boy whined, burrowing further into the blanket he had wrestled off of Athos in the middle of the night.

He always had been too indulgent of the brat, but even he should have drawn a line at sharing a bed.

It had felt too lonely without Porthos though.

"I made you coffee," Athos announced, and didn't add that it had been by accident, too used to making a second batch for Porthos, forgetting that he had been staying with Aramis for a few days.

Bright, sleepy eyes peeked at him. "Really?"

Athos hummed an agreement. "It's downstairs."

"That's too far!"

Athos rolled his eyes when bright ones disappeared again, and with nothing better to do for the next hour until he was allowed – _allowed_ – to leave his own house, he went and fetched the coffee.

D'Artagnan's happy little noises almost made him smile, until Athos caught sight of himself in the mirror, a mirror in which he normally saw Porthos watching him dress from bed.

Instead, he heard a peppy, "Nervous?"

"No," he snapped, fingers clenching around his cup so tightly he thought it might crack.

"You seem nervous."

Athos stilled, his head turning slowly to see d'Artagnan realise how vulnerable he was with boiling hot coffee in his hands and a furious Athos between him and the door.

"Or fine," d'Artagnan offered. "You seem fine."

Athos growled something about not spilling anything on the sheets, and then promptly stormed from the room, his cup discarded to the sink and his fingers tightening around the edge of the kitchen counter, the marble biting into his skin.

 _Fine_ was the opposite of how he was feeling, just as _excited_ and _happy_ and _ecstatic_ were opposites of how he was feeling.

 _Sick, worried, terrified,_ those were more accurate words.

Nervous was a bloody understatement.

He wanted nothing more than to see Porthos now, to cast aside this entire endeavour and simply chalk it up to a bad dream, to go back upstairs and crawl back into bed and hold onto the one person who knew him better than anyone else.

The person he loved most.

Athos heard the creak of the stairs, the soft pad of feet on the kitchen tile, but he was still only half-expecting the arms that appeared around his waist.

"Everything will be fine," d'Artagnan said reassuringly, squeezing tight enough to miss the slow closing of Athos' eyes. "Porthos knows you."

Athos lifted a hand to cover one of d'Artagnan's, and sighed something heartfelt, "That's what I'm worried about."

 

* * *

 

The weather held, but Porthos still kept glancing at the horizon and threatening to put Aramis in a headlock if he made dubious noises at a passing cloud.

It was outdoors, it had to be, Athos had long ago refused to set foot inside a church in case he burned up on entry, and Porthos hated the idea of doing it in some fancy house that didn't mean anything to them.

Porthos would have done it in their own garden but Aramis said he'd be damned if he couldn't take advantage of free drinks – and Athos' credit card, which Porthos finally relented to put behind the bar – so they're at a hotel, in the gardens.

The hotel itself is a little posh, but Porthos had taken one look at the honeymoon suite and a frankly fucking fantastic hot tub bath and booked the entire thing.

It was worth the suited-and-booted waiters just to know he was going to soap Athos up and go to town on him later; and even though Porthos wanted to scoff at the posh canapés that came with the venue, he was pleasantly surprised at the things they ended up with.

Maybe these moneyed places had something to say for them, because he had barely got the words _nothin' fancy_ out of his mouth when they agreed with him completely and whipped up a new menu.

Who'd've known they could make burgers so tiny?

Even if they probably were made with organic, oat-fed-and-hand-reared steaks.

"Okay," Aramis managed around a miniscule portion of fish and chips, "you had it under control."

"You admittin' you were wrong?"

"No, I always knew you'd be fine."

Porthos grinned, scoffing what might have been his fifth cube of braised pork – sausage on a stick it ain't. "You still can't use the hot tub."

Aramis stomped a foot, the gleaming black of his shoes leaving an imprint in the green grass. "Just once, then I'll leave you to it!"

"Like you'll leave."

"If you're offering," Aramis trailed off, eyebrow high, but it shot down when Porthos snagged both of their glasses of champagne. "You might want to be _awake_ for your bubbly bonanza tonight."

"Don't talk to me about bubbles," Porthos muttered, feeling it fizz uncomfortably in his stomach. "Where the fuck's the beer?"

Aramis stepped in front of him when he might have gone rampaging through the few rows of seats under the gauzy white canopy. "Deal with it, unless you want to smell like ale for your kiss."

Porthos paused, remembering how Athos' nose wrinkled whenever he had been down to the local for a pint of IPA. "Fair point, fine, gimme more champers."

Aramis was about to flag down a passing waiter when he cocked an ear to the side at some approaching noise, and then he raised gleeful eyes to Porthos' petrified ones. "He's here."

"Oh fuck."

 

* * *

 

"Oh fuck," Athos whispered, his chest feeling too tight when he knew very well that his shirt was perfectly tailored, his legs feeling wobbly when he knew very well that his shoes had been designed for his feet.

"Relax," d'Artagnan murmured, thrusting another glass of champagne into Athos' hands. "Drink this."

"I'm going to be sick," Athos warned without any venom, and drained the glass with a shuddering breath.

D'Artagnan gave him an amused smile, and it was surprising to see how affectionate it was. The morning had passed without issue, until even Athos couldn't find any fault with the busy boy, every task taken care of before he could think about it, every request carried out without fuss.

Quite on impulse, Athos dragged him into a hug and murmured, "What would I do without you, dear boy?"

D'Artagnan huffed a laugh, settling into him easily. "Forget your pocket watch?"

Athos pulled back to pat at his waistcoat, and then noticed the thin silver chain dangling from d'Artagnan's fingers. The pit that had opened in his stomach eased off somewhat, his sigh relieved as he threaded the watch through his button hole.

It was accompanied by a flower, one of two that had appeared at his front door only thirty minutes ago, long pale petals with a burst of golden yellow at its centre.

It was fake.

Athos had prodded it, distinctly unimpressed until he had seen a little card alongside the pins, and then anxiously demanded that d'Artagnan _bloody Google it or something._

Athos had managed to hide his little choke of surprise when d'Artagnan had read aloud, _cereus, withstands ridiculous temperatures and only blooms at night._

D'Artagnan, however, hadn't bothered to hide his laugh when he read it was a cactus flower and produced dragonfruit, and Athos had hastily told the brat that he would skin him alive if he even thought about bringing his phone into the ceremony.

 _I won't,_ he had snickered. _Moonflower._

A short clip around the ear and a desperate arrangement in the mirror later, they had warily jumped into the taxi outside and stepped out in front of a topiary arch, whatever lay beyond hidden by a trellis of flowers.

And champagne, lots of it.

Athos' hand shook as he sipped from his latest glass, d'Artagnan fussing at the lapels of his suit, one a far paler blue than Athos' midnight.

"I look like a page boy," d'Artagnan muttered, but Athos was too caught up in his own personal hell to tell him that the colour looked good on him, the pastel offset by the caramel of his skin.

Still, Athos expected to see his grumpy pout when he realised the four of them were all in different shades of blue and his was the lightest.

He _was_ the youngest, it only made sense.

It did manage to make Athos smile a little, but he affected a pout of his own when the same man who had opened their car door reappeared with a piece of paper clasped in his hand.

"My obituary, I presume," he muttered, scowling when the apparent waiter laughed.

"Ignore him," d'Artagnan offered brightly, "he's shy."

Athos threw the boy a needling look, and resigned himself to whatever fate was about to befall him on that innocuous sheet.

It took him a moment to recognise Porthos' handwriting.

It took him another to blink furiously when his eyes started to sting.

_Hey, love._

_I'm guessing you're pretty pissed at me right now, help yourself to a few drinks, it's only going to get worse._

_Glare all you want, you know I love you, right?_

' _Cause I do._

_I really, really do._

_Which, coincidentally, I'm about to say out loud, so get a move on. I'm fucking panicking over here._

"Okay," Athos managed hoarsely, over-bright gaze meeting d'Artagnan's strangely affectionate smile. "I'm ready."

"You always were."

"No, I wasn't," Athos murmured, inwardly relieved when d'Artagnan came over to lean against his side, bombarded with memories of feeling alone and broken and _ruined_. "For Porthos, though, I will be."

D'Artagnan gave him an odd little look, brow furrowed and smile wide, and then he hugged him abruptly, surprising Athos into squeezing him back, his hands lifting to the backs of the boy's shoulders.

Athos frowned at a scrawl he hadn't seen.

_PS. The confetti was Aramis' idea._

"The… Oh, _merde_."

Athos saw the little boxes now, wrapped in pretty bows and stylised pictures of flowers, ready to be grabbed and wielded in some barbaric rain of fire, and swore revenge.

He froze when the music started.

"That's your cue," d'Artagnan whispered, but Athos shook the boy off when he tried to drag him around the corner.

"Let me listen," he hissed absent-mindedly, brows tilted up in some apprehensive hope before they eased with a soft, breathless laugh. "It's Nocturne."

D'Artagnan frowned, head tilting. "Nocturne's way higher."

"It's one of Chopin's, I—" Athos broke off, surprised at how hard it suddenly was to explain, to remember, and yet he was smiling. "I played this for him, we were at a hotel and there was a piano in the bar. It was late, I was feeling indulgent."

It had been one of those times he hadn't been able to use words to explain how he felt, because being with Porthos made him feel _too much,_ it made him beyond happy, beyond content.

It made him want to play again.

Porthos had called him stunning after the final cadence had drifted out from under his fingers, and Athos had been snared by blunter ones that settled at his waist and spun him around the empty room.

Happiness was not bright enough a word.

Athos realised how foolishly sentimental he was being when he saw that d'Artagnan was staring at him.

"You can play the piano?"

Athos rolled his eyes and grabbed the boy's elbow, but all attempts at confidence melted away when he turned a corner and saw no more than twenty white chairs amidst the green grass, saw flowers and champagne and the smiling faces of the few people he called friends.

Saw Porthos, who had been fussing with his collar and looking nervously at a beaming Aramis before realising everyone had gone quiet.

Umber eyes met his, and Athos inhaled a breath that seemed too short, too shallow, too _sharp_ when nothing else mattered but the desperately delighted grin that spread across Porthos' face.

Athos' shirt is too tight, or perhaps it's his chest or his skin or the grip he has on d'Artagnan's arm because he can't remember how to breathe, how to _be_ when it feels as if life was meaningless before this very moment.

The walk to Porthos' side seemed too long, but then it was over in a flash, and Athos could barely remember to let d'Artagnan go when he was trying to drink Porthos in, navy suit, bowtie, and crisp white shirt, the diamond Athos bought him in his ear, and—

"You shaved," he managed in a shaky breath, and Porthos inhaled a similar one.

"S'a special occasion," Porthos replied, the rumble of his voice tight with something that Athos could feel, an itchy sensation at the back of his throat and his mouth too dry and something hot that dripped down his cheek.

Porthos let out a wondering, disbelieving breath and he cupped Athos' cheek, thumb dashing away the evidence.

Athos didn't quite know what to do, whether to throw himself into Porthos' arms or simply spontaneously combust under the amount of emotion currently forcing its way through his body.

"I will never forgive you for this."

Porthos laughed, able to breathe when normality returned, even though that dangerous little threat was wrapped up in a gorgeous suit and was looking at him as if he was the answer to every single one of life's questions.

And Athos tended to have a lot of questions.

"You can get me back at our vow renewal in forty years."

The smile that had been burgeoning on Athos' mouth faded away, replaced by a slight parting of lips and beautiful blue eyes that went unbearably soft, so full of something that looked like _hope_ that Porthos had to tug him close, uncaring of principle and caring only about holding Athos in his arms and coughing a wet noise into the slender curve of his neck.

"You're gonna get me goin' now."

"Good," was Athos' victorious mumble, and the moment held for each of them to try and take a breath that didn't tremble.

It took a while.

 

* * *

 

There were two cakes.

There was a ring on his finger, confetti in his hair, and there were two cakes.

Athos wasn't sure which was more alarming, but he was fairly certain it was the cakes. The confetti, he had been warned about that, and he might just admit that there had been something _vaguely_ pleasing about the shower of petals after they had finished their vows.

The ring, well, the platinum had warmed against his skin and the date inscribed on its inside seemed warmer still.

It was the twin of the one on Porthos' and although it was smaller to fit Athos' slimmer finger, it was the same thickness, and he rather liked that.

He liked feeling _equal,_ even if he knew he was worth less.

Athos had already brushed a kiss against Porthos' knuckles three times, and with each touch he had blinked in surprise at the feel of metal against his mouth.

Porthos' rapt interest brightened even further when Athos deliberately kissed the band.

It was theirs, after all, and that wasn't as alarming anymore.

The cakes were alarming because there were two of them, and because they existed, and because of what they stood for.

The first cake he had seen was the typical _twenty-tiered malarkey,_ as introduced to by Porthos, and the other was the confusingly termed "groom's cake."

It was an apple pie, Porthos had baked it himself.

Athos immediately refused to eat anything but, and spent the entirety of lunch feeding bits to Porthos and rolling his eyes at the cream Porthos wanted slathered all over it, along with a whispered, "an' over you later, _'usband._ "

Athos blushed brighter than the glass of red that Porthos had sourced him.

There were only three tables in the end, and the lack of drama with so few guests was blissful. The tour of the room was easy, swift, and meant that he could be back at Porthos' side in seconds.

Being away for too long felt odd, and Porthos seemed to feel it too, because they would look up at each other at the same time, Porthos' smile wide and Athos' shy, the pair of them twisting the ring on their fingers.

It was like a lodestone, and Porthos had always been Athos' true north.

It had wavered a little when he kept getting distracted by the flowers. There were real ones here, large, white blooms and long, delicate stems, but none were the silk creation in their buttonholes, and Athos didn't understand why.

Athos was staring curiously at the odd-looking plant between his and Porthos' plates when Porthos eased down beside him, thigh pressed in a hot flash against Athos' and a brief, tantalising kiss that ended far too soon for both of them.

The day was dragging on too long, and the light, warm emotions were swiftly darkening with every caught glance and heated smile.

Athos blinked at overly warm eyes and stammered, "What is this?"

Porthos dragged his gaze to the single closed bud, tongue between his teeth as he visibly tried to _not_ think about the two of them disappearing for a bit.

"S'a moonflower, it blooms at night," Porthos murmured, and his hand twined with Athos' beneath the table. "So when you wake up in the middle of the night, as you always do, an' I'm snorin' next to you, you'll be able to see it, in all its pale, beautiful glory."

Porthos' attention had returned to him at the last, and Athos suddenly felt as if he was being compared to the introverted little bud currently gracing their table.

To the beautiful bloom he had seen pictured on d'Artagnan's phone that morning.

"I added something to my watch," Athos announced quietly, and watched Porthos' fingers trail with agonising slowness to his waistcoat, the silver chain clinking against his ring.

"I love this on you. 'Ave I told you yet how stunnin' you looked today?" Porthos was deliberately taking his time, so Athos scowled at him.

"Yes, twice."

"S'not enough times," Porthos murmured, leaning in until his open-mouthed smile caught at Athos' tight-lipped one. "'Cause you are _fuckin' gorgeous._ "

"I decided against the canary yellow," Athos tried to say matter-of-factly, but it failed when he tried to bite at Porthos' luscious lower lip. "You would have still looked handsome."

Porthos chuckled happily, but it trailed away when he looked down at his hand and saw something new engraved in the antique silver.

"Athos," he whispered disbelievingly, thumb brushing over the letters proving Athos' adoration, just as a tear had earlier today. "You put my initials too?"

"You can't wear it," Athos replied, vainly forcing steadiness to a voice that wanted to quaver when Porthos held the watch tight in his hand and gave him the most tender of grateful kisses. "I think they look good together."

"Yeah," Porthos agreed roughly, smile tugging at a mouth that threatened to downturn. "You gonna put both on the letterheads?"

"Then the motorised gate," Athos breathed into another kiss, and Porthos' nod almost led into something else entirely, because he was so close and so present and so very _his,_ and they both huffed a laugh when d'Artagnan loudly cleared his throat.

They looked up to see everyone sitting down again and Aramis raising an amused eyebrow. "There's time enough for that later."

"As if he wasn't staring for the entirety," Ninon cat-called from her seat next to Flea, who snickered when Aramis pretended to ignore them.

There was a sense of expectation in the air for some reason, and Athos' stomach gave a discomfiting lurch when Aramis clinked a fork against his freshly filled champagne glass.

Speeches, he should have realised.

There was probably still time to run, Porthos would come if he even hinted at some ideas they could play out.

Except that Porthos settled in his chair and handed Athos his own glass.

Speeches, then.

Aramis was first up, but then nobody had expected otherwise, nor for it to be bad, because Aramis was charming at the best of times, but especially when he was retelling tales of his and Porthos' youth.

Endless stories of hijinks and capers, of the smile Porthos has when he talks about Athos, the smile Athos has when he thinks people aren't looking – cue laughter and Athos glaring, earning a kiss on the cheek from Porthos.

Painfully honest as he was, Aramis span the story of disliking Athos at first, this cold man who had ensnared his best friend, but somehow, in some bizarre, completely irrational way, Athos managed to find his way into everyone's lives, whether it was eyerolls or smirks, or always being there when you needed to know – _or didn't need to know_ – what wine to get.

Athos stared at the tablecloth for the duration, uncomfortable with being talked about, uncomfortable when it was in relation to _Porthos._

Athos knew how little value he was worth without being reminded of it with every titter and toast.

"In all," Aramis continued, "I couldn't imagine anyone else with Porthos now, and Athos is as dear to me as he is. I think I speak for us all when I say that I wish them every happiness."

Aramis would spend the rest of the wedding playing up to his "adorable speech" by flirting with every guest and every waiter, including a stammering d'Artagnan who had the misfortune of being seated next to him.

The boy held his own when it came to his speech though, surprising Athos into looking up when he stood, crumpled paper in his fiddling hands and a brow that was dabbed at too often.

Everyone smiled when it was d'Artagnan's turn, not for Aramis' reasons of lewd jokes and impromptu tales, but genuine emotion and a predilection for fluffing his sentences up.

D'Artagnan glanced at him often, and Athos was always watching him, something akin to a fond smile on his face, and it gave the boy the strength to carry on.

That and the champagne Aramis keeps pouring into his glass.

"I met Athos when I wasn't in a great place, and he, sort've, filled the gap my father had left— oh, wait," he began to babble when he realised he had just called Athos his father-figure.

"Thank you, d'Artagnan," Athos drawled, knowing it was meant with an affection that Athos returned.

D'Artagnan tried to sink back into his chair, but Porthos grinned widely and called, "Athos loves you too, Pup."

D'Artagnan's nervous glance was met with a rolling of Athos' eyes, but he was smiling – after poking Porthos in the thigh – and so d'Artagnan took a relieved breath and another hefty gulp of liquid fortitude.

It wasn't far wrong, the boy who had taken the place of his brother – who, in turn, had always been his to protect, so perhaps "father" was accurate, if a little wary of aging.

If it had just stopped there, Athos might have made it through the day simply uncomfortable rather than unhappy, but weddings were awful places and so it went on.

Porthos stood with a laugh to rapturous applause. "Alright, you lot, calm down. I 'aven't even said anythin' yet. 'Kay, Athos; where do I start?"

Athos darted an almost hesitant look upwards. It wasn't quite a glare but it wanted to be.

He was suddenly nervous again, vulnerable, _small_ , because it was finally hitting him that he was married to this wonderful man and he's not sure how, how it happened, how he was worthy enough, how he was meant to _cope_ with what Porthos would say.

It wasn't a glare because it was a plea, _please don't do this, I'm not sure I can take it_.

Porthos' grin softened slightly, his fingers brushing discreetly against Athos' jaw even as he was pierced by that pleading stare. "S'alright, love," he murmured, and when Athos' jaw tightened stubbornly, Porthos laughed and brushed a knuckle against his cheek.

"Athos is tryna kill me with his mind, right now, an' I thought we'd at least get to tomorrow before that 'appened."

"Not tonight?" Aramis piped up cheekily from his lazy sprawl, an arm looped around d'Artagnan's neck.

Athos' glare whipped to Aramis, who held up a hand and tried to hide behind a flushed, but smiling, d'Artagnan.

Porthos' reply was easy, relaxed, as always. "Nah, some of us are still around to kill the mornin' after."

Aramis clutched his heart dramatically, and when Athos blinked in surprise at being so expertly defended – and without any lewd allusion to their own lives – Aramis sent a wink Athos' way.

After the laughter died down, Porthos shifted his weight so he could rest a hand on Athos' shoulder. "A couple people weren't sure about us bein' together at first, some were quite bloody vocal 'bout it actually."

At this, everyone looked at Aramis again, who snorted into his glass of froth and pouted when d'Artagnan took it away from him.

"I s'pose it was a fair view, certainly in the beginnin', we were completely different."

Athos stiffened, unhappy with the thought of where this was going. He was used to being thought of as the cold one, the cruel one, and in some cases he liked it; but coming from Porthos?

It hurt.

Porthos, as always, sensed his discomfort, and his fingers squeezed Athos' shoulder reassuringly. "I was all over the place, wanderin' here an' there, only holdin' down a job 'til I got bored; an' Athos? He was the sensible one, an' he made me wanna be a little bit sensible too."

Athos' mouth parted slightly as he stared at the table, gobsmacked at hearing himself being put in the _good_ light for once.

"I thought I'd be a wanderer forever, I didn't particularly enjoy it, but I liked it more'n gettin' a job an' a house an' comin' 'ome alone every night."

"Speak for yourself," Aramis said _sotto voce_ , and received an elbow in the ribs courtesy of d'Artagnan, who in turn got a quick, pleased smile from Athos.

"An' then I met Athos," Porthos announced ever-so-casually, but Athos felt the twitch in strong fingers, in the ring against his skin. "Athos with 'is regimented day an' 'is fuckin' cold shower wake ups, an' for all it was pretty alien to me, I liked it. I liked havin' structure, most of all I liked havin' a home," Porthos paused to thumb Athos' neck and make him look up, dangerously close to a deliriously happy bruise made the night before. "An' home is wherever Athos is."

Athos stared deep into those warm, brown eyes, searching for the lie that wasn't there.

Was that really how Porthos saw him? Not as the one that weighed him down but the one who gave him weight so he didn't float away?

Porthos didn't look away now, his smile higher at one end than the other. "Wasn't sure you were gonna say yes, to be honest, love."

Athos was startled enough to ask, "Why?"

"'Cause you 'ate change," Porthos laughed, and it prompted a wry smile.

"It isn't a change, it's... confirmation."

"You have such a romantic way of puttin' things," Porthos replied teasingly, and when Athos scowled, Porthos thumbed that warm bruise on purpose and added quietly, "S'why I love you."

Athos' cheeks heated for a myriad of reasons, but fortunately it was hidden by Porthos' wicked grin and loud, "A toast, to Athos."

"To Athos," echoed around the room, d'Artagnan proudly in his ear, and Athos hoped it was over.

"Speech!"

It wasn't.

 

* * *

 

Athos looked up a little helplessly, a chorus of "speech!" ringing in his ears and Porthos sitting down to smile at him.

"Your turn."

Athos' stomach dropped as he hissed, "I didn't plan a speech!"

Porthos chuckled, "Neither did I, s'from the heart."

Athos stared in some mild wonder at the easiness in Porthos' reply, and couldn't help but murmur in the face of it, "I wouldn't know what to say."

"You tellin' me you didn't get taught in toast-masterin' at that fancy school of yours?" Porthos simply gave him a kiss when he scowled, and nudged him on the arm. "Go on. G'it."

Athos gave one last glare, more for proprietary's sake than anything else, and then he stood.

To applause.

That was odd enough in itself, but to see so many happy faces staring at him and Porthos rather gave him somewhere to start.

"I'm not entirely sure why I'm here."

There was soft laughter throughout the room, Porthos' hand snaking around his back to hold his hip, and Athos added, "Indeed, I'm not entirely sure I deserve this."

The laughter wasn't as loud this time, the few friends who didn't know Athos quite as well looking at each other in confusion.

Athos cast an eye over the myriad of things about them, things done for him, thinks he liked and loved and adored, the people that had come for them – the ones that hadn't. It seemed unreal.

In truth, if he had planned this, it would have been him and Porthos in a registry office with a few hundred people. Small, simple, and then lunch in the Dorchester.

Small.

Simple.

For all Porthos baulked at extravagance; in a way, this _was_ , for him.

The nice wine, the fancy cake, the hor-d'oeuvres, they were for Athos.

 _S'my last gift,_ Athos remembered Porthos saying, down on one knee and smile a mile-wide. _Well, it's me._

"Porthos was wrong," Athos started, and inwardly echoed the winces he saw, because Porthos rendered him speechless and grand gestures of affection even more so. "Wrong because I am not the sensible one. Regimented, yes, a bit of a homebody – or perhaps gargoyle would be more appropriate, looming over doorways and set in stone – but not sensible."

Porthos was the only one still grinning, although there were a few snickers at that last section.

"I have my excesses, many flaws, a whole host of issues that arise in everything from wine with dinner to, ah, commitment," Athos trailed off with an awkward laugh when he caught sight of his ring. "Sensible, I am not."

Porthos' hand squeezed his hip when people began to smile, some somewhat uncomfortably, but Athos had a point to make and he would make it, he just wasn't quite sure what it was.

"If either of us were to say we were changed for the better, it should be me. Before I met Porthos I was effectively a loner by choice, and only through the painstaking – and sometimes endearingly infuriating – efforts of my friends did I do anything close to socialising. It's by no stretch of the imagination to say that my life was sorely lacking in satisfaction, let alone sensibility."

Athos took a breath to carry on and realised he had lost most of the room, his long-winded explanation had confused them. But then, it wasn't meant for them.

So he turned to Porthos, his own hand settling on the one still on his hip, left hand over left, ring against ring.

He could get used to this.

Probably.

"In fact, the only sensible thing I ever did was saying yes to you." This brought their audience's attention again, their smiles indulgent of the vulnerability in his voice. "I will endeavour to keep being sensible."

That sentence held so much that went over everyone else's head, it was saying yes to Porthos, it was letting him have his head when Athos was losing his, it was saying that he was right, has been and will be and Athos _sees_ that now.

It was Athos accepting something he thought had been lost to him forever.

Porthos raised a spirited eyebrow, so Athos offered in a quiet undertone for him and him alone, "I will endeavour to keep saying _yes._ "

Porthos' lips shaped the words, _I love you_ , and Athos let his mouth curve just so Porthos could see it, and then he turned back to the room, and raised his glass.

"To Porthos, the true sensible one, and the best man I have ever known."

"To Porthos," echoed around the room, and Porthos took it with a bowed head and grace, and very nearly tugged Athos onto his lap as he sat down again.

A quick glance said a surprised _no_ and a firm _not here_ and a shy _later_.

Instead, Porthos' hand swept up to the back of his neck with a promising squeeze, and Athos leaned into the pull for a kiss as the hubbub reasserted around them, Porthos sighing happily when they were together again.

"I don't think that properly explained what I meant," Athos said a little disappointedly, frown marring his brow.

"I got it," Porthos murmured into his skin. Athos gave him a dubious look, wishing that for all his way with words, he could use them for words of love; but Porthos just smiled, his fingers warm on Athos' neck. "My life was shit before I met you, too."

Athos took a breath and felt the rightness in it, felt it within him, and felt it in the man who understood him better than he understood himself.

"Yes," he murmured, smile meeting Porthos' in a soft, slow kiss, his own ringed hand sliding up firm chest to fist in silken bowtie. "That will do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, happy tears again. I'm a sucker. This was supposed to be the last chapter, there are no more notes and I'm drowning in other fic, but what say we crank this up to an E rating for the wedding night? I'm taking votes.
> 
> For reference, the piece that Athos walks into is Chopin's Nocturne, Op. 55, No. 1 in F-Minor. I wax lyrical on musical accompaniments on [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com) if you're interested in asking.


End file.
